Journaling was something I’d intended to do regularly for years. I’ve went through phases of it. Never sticking to it or making it a daily routine. I wanted to stick to it. Make it through a month. See if anything changed. Maybe I would feel different, or happier somehow.
Journaling is easy when you have something on your mind. You get it out on paper or tablet or whatever and it gives you some perspective. The more insistent your thoughts are the more journaling will benefit you.
Each day I wrote and wrote. Some days I’d write five pages. Other days I’d write five lines. It was difficult to write when I felt good. It reminded me of meditation in that way. Nobody feels the need to meditate when they feel great. Journaling was the same. Those days I felt best were the days I really had to force myself to sit down and write.
Writing out my thoughts each day didn’t have me feeling much different at the end of the month. However I felt that day was how I felt. The consistent journaling hadn’t changed that. The noticeable difference was on the actual day. If I felt miserable or depressed then writing helped immensely.
It seems to me that the mind wants to be active no matter what. You can put reins on the mind through meditation, but writing out your thoughts can be almost as effective in the moment. Meditation will always remain king for long term effects in trying to control your thoughts, but this writing them out malarkey has something to it. With each sentence I’d feel a sense of relief. The quiet desperation to make sense of things would ease, and with every solution found there would be a small sense of euphoria. It was almost intoxicating. Some days I couldn’t wait to write.
There was always a sense of worry though. Writing out your inner most thoughts that we normally keep locked in our minds gave a feeling of being stripped bare. I suppose the solution to this is to burn after writing. Or delete. Whichever is the preference. I didn’t want to. I liked having my thoughts on paper. I liked reading them weeks later to remind myself what I was thinking and feeling. I’ve no doubt I’ll enjoy reading them even more in decades to come.
The worst was writing in the presence of somebody else. They (she) would be pottering about in the kitchen or across the room or wherever, while I’d be making a note of how I liked the way her boob or hip looked from the side as she walked. These weren’t the kind of intimate details you want somebody else reading. Sometimes she’d make a launch for my phone, “What are you doing on there?” would echo through the room mid-dive. I’d always manage to close my phone in time. It was dangerous territory. Better to write when nobody is around.
I won’t be continuing journaling as a daily routine. I’ll definitely be continuing journaling intermittently. I have miserable days as much as anybody else. Maybe a little less than most, but I do have my fair share of down days. Journaling was great for that. My mood would almost inevitably be heightened by each writing session. It would never peak to a blissful state. Only meditation – or maybe sex – can do that. Or food or drugs. I’m all about the natural high as a preference and journaling gave a pleasant natural high.